


Endlessly

by writtenthroughtime



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:57:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenthroughtime/pseuds/writtenthroughtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Gotham-Ruaidh's Endless Time Loop Theory.</p><p>Jamie and Claire's story doesn't end when they die, they simply start over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Won't Let You Go

My head lay on his pillow wishing it were his chest instead. Tears streamed ceaselessly down my face as my heart broke further. Jamie had been gone for less than a day and already I could feel myself slowly giving in to death.

“Why did you leave before me, Jamie? Oh, God! How I miss you. I can still see you and feel you, but you’re not here. Why, why, wh—y?” My voice cracked as I screamed at the empty room.

The door creaked open and I jumped up ready to slam into Jamie, only Brianna walked in. Our beautiful Brianna, the spit of her father. Shuddering sobs coursed through me as my only living child embraced me.

“Mama, come downstairs.” Bree begged.   
I shook my head. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to be in this house and I couldn’t bear to leave it. Reaching out I stroked Jamie’s side of the bed, longing for his strong, calming form to be there, only to be met with the fading warmth of my own body heat.

With tear-filled eyes I looked into her blue eyes—her father’s blue eyes— the eyes I loved so much. “I can’t. I need him. I can’t…”

“I know Mama, I know.” She gently stroked my back, as I had done for her many times before. “Please don’t give up, Mama. Jem, Mandy, Roger, Ian we all need you. I need you.” Seeing Bree cry only increased my tears and guilt. I was ready to leave it all, and I had people that need me, relied on me waiting just down the stairs.

“Can we just lay here for a little while before going down? I don’t think I’m ready to face everyone just yet.”

“Of course, Mama.” Bree said as she rubbed my back and guided us down to the bed.  
Bree pulled me up against her and continued to stroke my back. Cuddled into my daughter I allowed myself to grieve and begin to relax.

“Darling,” Grabbing her beautiful face in my hands I whispered my plea. “If something happens to me, take the kids and run. Go back to the twentieth century.”

“I can’t do that, Mama. My family is here. Roger and I have no one back there, everything and everyone we love is under this roof tonight.”

I scoffed and held her tighter. “I love you, Brianna Ellen.”

“I love you too, Mama.”

 

I must have fallen asleep for when I woke everything was different, the heat was stifling, and the sun was brighter than I had expected, it had to be midday instead of the early morning sun I last recalled. I looked around and found Uncle Lamb was a good three feet deeper into the ground and excitedly dancing and tossing his hat into the air.

Odd… I could have sworn he…no, no this hasn’t happened before.

“Claire! Claire my dear, you have to see what we found!”

“We?” I whispered. My eyebrows scrunched in confusion. We? We found? Who…? A  
man with dark hair and a severe face came to mind, but I don’t recall where I could have seen this man before. Shaking my head, clearing my thoughts, and dismissing the severe scowl from my mind.

“Darling, meet historian Frank Randall. He’s come all this way to listen to me prattle about the dig site.”

The man beside him laughed drawing my attention to him. Dear God, it was him. No. No, no no. The fear and surprise must have been evident on my face for Uncle Lamb was out of the hole and by my side in an instant.

“Claire, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I—I think the heat must be getting to me.”

“Ah, well only a few more weeks until we’re back in England and on to Ireland! Why don’t you head back to the campsites, get some fresh water and rest? I’ll show you the discovery in the morning!” Uncle Lamb did an excited jig as he patted my arm and jumped back into the pit, admiring his find.

“Shall I escort you back, madam?”

“No!” I said throwing my hands out to halt Mr. Randall’s advance. “I mean, no thank-you. I’ll be quite alright on my own. Good day, Mr. Randall.”

“Frank, please call me Frank.”

I nodded and made my way back to the caravan of tents.

Who was Frank Randall? Why does he send shivers down mine spine, not in a good way either? Whomever he is, I will not allow myself to become too close to him, something doesn’t feel….right.

The following morning after Uncle Lamb showed me his most recent discovery we sat atop a ruin enjoying the simplicity of each others company. Something in me made me antsy, I felt as though something were missing and I couldn’t yet touch on it.

“Mr. Randall asked a bit about you after you’d gone in for the evening.” Uncle Lamb casually remarked while polishing a newfound artifact.

“Mmm, what did he want?” I said, feigning interest, watching as Uncle Lamb’s hands methodically circled the artifact with the scrap of cloth.

“He asked for your hand…”   
I turned to look at my uncle’s face, horror-stricken at such a notion.

Laughing, Uncle Lamb held up his hands, “No, no, I didn’t mean that way. He wanted to escort you on a walk or activity of some sort and he was asking my permission. Decent chap, asking for my permission, but I said to him, ‘Frank, if it’s Claire’s hand and company you seek, you’ll have to ask her yourself.’ He wasn’t too happy with the answer but I trust you enough to decide your own fate.”

Sighing, I slumped onto my back throwing my arm over my eyes, thankful that I didn’t have to make false pleasantries with the historian.

“Something about him doesn’t sit right with you does it?”  
 I shook my head grunting out, “No. There’s something I can’t quite figure out, but it’s as if I’ve known him before…I don’t trust him.”

“Well if that’s the case, don’t accept him when he meets us here shortly!”

“What?” I sat up, blinking against the harsh sun, frantically searching for the man of dread to arrive. “You didn’t!”

“I couldn’t very well stop him. Just turn him down gently, he doesn’t seem the type to take rejection too well.”

Sure enough, a brief ten minutes later the looming form of Frank Randall stood before me.

“Ah, Miss Beauchamp, I—I—uh,” he stuttered and wrung the bill of his hat through his hands nervously. “I was wondering if I may see you tonight?”

The sentence came out all in one breath, as though it were a single word. “I’m sorry?”

“Will you do me the honor of accompanying me on a walk followed by dinner, this evening?”

“Oh!” I looked down, hoping he’d take it for being demure instead of trying to figure out the easiest way to turn him down. He was rather adorable, stuttering and nervous with his seemingly innocent proposal, but still something deep within me told me to stay away form him. “I’m sorry Mr. Randall, but I must decline.”

He was so crestfallen that it gave me a moment’s pause. In a foolish act I placed my hand on his arm. “Please don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, it’s just—”

“It’s just you don’t wish to accompany me, is it?” He cut me off sighing and shaking his head. He patted my hand before pulling away, replacing the brown hat to his head. “I’m sorry for having distressed you in my proposal. Good day.”

“Will you have tea with us?” I stupidly blurted out.

“What?” He looked surprised, and I’m sure I had an equally surprised look upon my own face.

“Will you join my uncle and I for tea. I’m sorry to say I do not wish to accompany you this evening, but there’s no reason the three of us cannot sit and enjoy one another’s company while discussing the marvelous finds of history.”

He smiled, and for once his face looked less severe, and almost handsome. I did hope he would find a woman suitable for himself, I knew I could never be such a woman.

Frank and I kept contact through the years. Every so often he would join Uncle Lamb and I on a dig. He had gone on to become a history professor at Oxford and any of the information Uncle Lamb and I could pass on was that much more he could impress his superiors and tickle the fancy of his students with. The day I decided to go to medical school, he wrote me a letter wishing me luck; this would have been sweet had it not been that he had sealed a second letter in with my on accident. A letter addressed to my uncle stating how he could not believe he would allow such a thing to pass. That school especial school of medicine were no places for a woman.

The anger that coursed through me reading this was enough to burn the building down. How dare he! Who does the righteous Professor Randall think he is?  
Ripping up his letter of congratulations up and throwing them into the flames, I kept the one doubting my capabilities and vowed never to speak to Frank Randall again.

Halfway through medical school, the war broke out. Uncle Lamb understood when I volunteered to go on the front lines as a combat nurse, he never once tried to stop me. I wish I could have been there for him to stop him from lecturing that day during the Blitz. The other nurses and I bonded in the muck of blood, feces and grime.

For six long years we triumphed alongside one another over the horrifying battle wounds: lacerations, missing limbs, amputations that had to be done, and the stomach dropping moment of losing a patient. Finally the war was over. Even over, that did not stop the flashbacks of the violence we had seen. Janet had decided that we should all go on holiday together. The place she chose was quite an odd choice, I believed but loved that she did choose the Scottish Highlands. Something about those mountains gave me a sense of peace, at a time such as we had just left, peace was exactly what we needed.  

Walking the streets of Inverness had reminded me of the last time I had been here with Uncle Lamb and Frank. I wondered if the Reverend Wakefield still lived nearby? His housekeeper’s stories were delightful and I could use a laugh. Scotland brought me peace while awake, asleep was another matter entirely.

My sleep became steadily more restless each night we spent here. Visions, dreams, and nightmares of a handsome man with eyes like the ocean and fiery red hair. I awoke each night in a cold sweat or with tears streaming down my cheeks, as my heart ached for this man. The situations my subconscious had devised were unfathomable. Terrible things no one should ever endure and love so deep it radiated off of his very being.  
Something was niggling at the back of mind. A name, it held meaning, but I could not place it. Why couldn’t I place it or even form the name? As I made my way up the high street I continued to try to solve this puzzle. The inclination started any time I pondered on that redheaded man, who—Fraser.

I gripped the first thing that I came into contact with; A stone pillar in middle of the square.

Jamie Fraser.

The man’s name was Jamie. Warmth filled my chest at the recognition, but why?

I gripped my chest with my right hand, an invisible weight seemed to rest upon it. Oh, dear God, Jamie, please who are you to me?


	2. Are You My Angel?

Claire. My Claire, I need my Claire…

“Hush. Jamie, I’m here,” Claire said stroking my sweat-soaked hair back from my face. 

“Cl-air-rre,” I reached out, feeble hands fumbling at her wrist, trying to hold on to her. 

Sobs came from Claire as she held my hand. “Shh, my love, shh. I’m right here. I love you, you’re fine. You’ll be fine.” 

A faint smile crossed my lips, my love, my home. 

“I,” my voice began to fail me. Claire turned my face so I was gazing up into her beautiful whiskey colored eyes. 

“I love you,” whether I was speaking English, Gaelic, French or another language I’ll never know, but I knew she would understand. 

“Oh Jamie, I love you too. Please don’t leave me my love, please!” She begged me leaning down to kiss my lips. Her tears mingled with my own across my sweaty cheek. 

“Mo ni-ighe-ea-an donn…” My eyelids felt heavy and my body no longer ached. All I could see was the imprint of my Sorcha across my eyelids and peace was all I could feel as she held me to her breast. 

“Ach!” I exclaimed as I gently brushed the back of my head. A warm stickiness clung to my hand, blood. 

“Where—?” I made to turn my head, but the Earth began to spin, causing my stomach to churn and flip riotously. Laying my head back on the cold earth I wondered if this was what dying felt like.

“Jamie?” I could hear Murtagh calling out. “Lad, where are ye?”

I tried to lift my arm with little success. 

“He-errre,” I heard someone grumble. Could that have been my voice? It must be—my throat rasped, my voice broke on every syllable. 

He must have heard me for the only thing I could hear next was the sound of rushing footsteps. Large hands gripped my sides, hefting me up into strong arms. The hands felt familiar, but wrong. A pang I never knew existed twisted at my heart. Small dainty hands and slender wrists of the purest of porcelain sprang to my mind. 

Violently gasping , I clutched at my heart. Why is this pain here? Why are these images causing such anguish? Who do these hands belong to?

“Ye’ll be alright lad. we need to get ye to somewhere safe, and aways from yer mam’s kin.”

Groaning with every step Murtagh took, I tried not to call out. The pain of my head and heart engulf me into a stupor; my thoughts only focused on one thing—the hands. Those beautiful dainty hands and wrists. I could recall their shape and tenderness in an instant but I couldna picture the rest of the lass they belong to.

Weeks turned into months, hiding in France with the protection of my uncle’s monastery became monotonous and and bleak. The images of a lass slowly, body part by body part came back to me—like pieces of a sunken ship, slowly resurfacing. The blow to the back of my head erased her name and voice from me. Her deep whiskey colored eyes and wide expressive smile frame by unruly long, curly brown hair; Mo nighean donn. Remembering that name filled me with warmth at the time, now all it brings is sadness. She had to be mine, for no other woman would bear such a powerful name. Could she be searching for me now? Where was she? Had something happened to her? And why—for the love of God—could I not remember her name and voice? 

Murtagh left shortly after getting me to safety. He would be the person to ask about such a lass but it wouldna be safe in writing. I couldna endanger her like that, or have a chance of my uncle discovering my whereabouts. I’m not sure who she is but I must keep her safe. 

Some nights I wake in a cold sweat. Her silken skin haunting my fingertips, her soft hair tickling my nose, and her warm kisses bringing me to a completion I didn’t think possible in sleep. The monks and fathers at the abbey have punished my outbursts with nights laying in naught but my shirt on the cold stone floor; even there in a house of God, almost naked laying on ice-like stones, the visions and haunting touches of mo nighean donn causing palpitations and arousal more powerful than the cold could ever be. 

It was now early April, three months after the raiding party that resulted with my head injury. Healed and ready to be back in Scotland I sent word to Murtagh weeks before and finally received a reply. He would meet the ship at the shore just before Beltane. A week at sea had ne’er seemed so daunting, but the prospect of home overcame the initial queasiness. 

The voyage from France to Scotland left me weak and exhausted. Crawling from the deck to the shore was about all I could manage. Murtagh, bless him, was there waiting a new plaid, a sack of food, and two horses at hand. Just off the the coast on one of the many crags lay a hidden cave. Murtagh settled the horses in a bend where no even the beasts of the sky could find them. 

The vantage from the cave was perfect for making sure unwanted visitors were spotted. Sitting at the edge of the cave, watching the sun set into the endless horizon of the sea I ached to ask Murtagh the questions that had been plaguing me since that day he sent me to France. 

“What’s on yer mind, lad?” 

I started, looking over at Murtagh who was bent over a piece of wood, whittling away at an intricate design. “Ye’ve been fidgeting as though bugs are crawling up yer arse for the past hour.”

I shook my head unable to find the words to start with. My mouth would open but nothing came out, arms outstretched in a gesture of the tale that willna come forward. My head drooping onto my chest in dejection while my hand fell to the ground, carving circles into the dirt. 

“Have I ever had a—” I sighed, “Have I ever had a lass to call my own?”

Murtagh set the wood and his dirk down, crossing his arms across his chest and quirked a brow at me. “Ye mean like Miss Annalise in France?”

“No,” I looked down where my hand was still tracing circles. A rough outline of the wild curls of my lass etched into the cave floor. My heart tightened at the sight. “I mean have I ever been promised or married? I canna remember so much before the incident at the cattle raid, but an image of a brown haired lass fills my waking and sleep filled dreams.”

“A brown haired lass ye say?” I nodded, looking up at Murtagh’s face. His features relaxed and his eyes were crinkled with the hidden smile from behind his beard. “It sounds like a faerie or an angel has started to haunt ye, and that couldna be a bad thing.”

“An angel?” My mind raced and my eyes searched the heavens, foolishly expecting her to swoop out from behind the moon or clouds. “Aye, she’s an angel to me. Porcelain skin, so silken and smooth to the touch, her hair is like the clouds, Murtagh, wild puffs of brown curls, and her eyes, her eyes are like the best dram of whiskey seen through the rays of the sunlight.” I turned and looked into his eyes again, sadness and hope filled them. “I ache for her, athair-baistidh.”

Murtagh lay a hand on my knee, squeezing ever so slightly. “Ye’ll find her, Jamie. The visions ye speak of, are just that, visions. Perhaps it’s the Almighty’s way of saying this is who ye need to look out for.”

The rest of the night was spent in silence, each of us taking turns watching for red coats or MacKenzies. 

The morning dawned for once, sunny and mild, perfect for traveling away as far as possible—hopefully into Fraser lands. We made it to MacKenzie lands by nightfall, the more dangerous times yet to face us. Sleep did not come easy that day, every crack of a branch or clop of a hoof kept us on edge, expecting a raiding party to jump out and obtain us. 

We went without a fire, and stuck to eating the staling bannocks Murtagh thought to pack. 

“Lad, we’re about a three days ride to Lallybroch. Do ye still wish to go there?” Murtagh whispered as we packed the horses in the early lights of dawn.

“Aye,” I whispered back as we mounted the horses. “There’s no where as safe as there for now. I dinna ken how long I’ll stay there, but it’s better than France with no word, or stuck doing Colum and Dougal’s will.”

“Well, lads. Look who we have here! A few stray Frasers making their way hidden up the road.” The booming voice of Dougal MacKenzie came from behind us, followed by the raucous laughter of the raiding party. 

“Dougal,” Murtagh solemnly muttered like a curse. 

“Where are ye off to in such a hurry? There’s a wee bit of cattle to be won just over the hill, join us nephew.” Dougal said, trotting up along side me. 

“Ah, we’re just headed to the North, we best not raid with ye today.” I tried to steel my resolve into the look I gave Dougal. Alas, it didna work.

“Nonsense!” He called out for everyone to hear before leaning close and whispering, “Ye’ll be coming with us if I have to drag you from yer horse.”

Sighing, I nodded and signaled for Murtagh to go. The stubborn man refused and rode next to me as we headed towards our newly acquired party. 

Lying in wait behind the trees surrounding the farm of choice Dougal kept a weary I upon me. “Where have ye been nephew? I havena seen ye since early February and then ye were laying on the ground bleeding from yer skull.” 

“I’ve been away.” I tried my damnedest not to show mirth or hatred that was filling me. He had seen me bleeding on the ground for he’s the one who put me there. Either that or my instincts have also been whisked away like the memory of my lass. 

“Surely ye can tell yer uncle where ye’ve been. Besides, best get used to my company, we’ll be headed to Leoch after the raid and ye’re coming wi’ us.”

I snorted in derision. “Of course, uncle.” Dougal seemed satisfied and focused back on the farm. Holding up a hand he let out a whistle.

“Steady boys,” he said nodding to Rupert who tossed over an extra musket. “NOW!”

Calls of ‘Tulach Ard!’ could be heard as the MacKenzie raiding party stormed the farm. 

Seconds later red coats emerged from the trees and sheds, screaming in vigor as they likewise stormed towards us. Gun shots going off from every angle. I went to make my escape when I felt the searing pain of a musket ball pierce my shoulder, knocking me from the horse. A crunching noise and a pop made my vision fade and bright white spots appear in its place. 

Dougal and Rupert picked me up and threw me atop of my horse, smacking its rear and leading us towards the woods. A cabin was visible up ahead, and every jostling motion of the horses hooves sent more sparks of white across my vision causing me to clench my teeth in pain. 

Dougal slammed his fist on the door and a slight lass answered the door, her kerchief draped over her hair, and holes lining her skirts. I couldna hear what was being said over the blood thrumming in my ears. My heart was frantically beating it’s way out of my chest, while more blood poured from my shoulder. 

Rupert pulled me down from the horse and left me a heap on the ground. Staggering my way inside, I saw a chair laid out before the fire and sat in front of it, desperate to find warmth and comfort for my sore body. I made inventory of the men who accompanied Dougal, all men that normally went on the rent and protection raids as well. Murtagh was no longer amongst the men, and I prayed he escaped the red coats. 

My fears were relieved when Murtagh burst through the door, ushering a lass before him. Dougal and the others questioned the lass while their eyes eagerly roamed her body. Something within me boiled at the thought. She was clad in only her shift—a torn shift—soaked all the way through, and clearly uncomfortable. I wished to see the lass’s face, hear her voice up close. The strikingly English accent caused tension in the room, while it filled me with warmth. 

“Aye, well there’ll be time for that later. First we have to figure out what to do with young Jamie here.” Dougal said walking closer then prodding the injured arm. 

“Jamie?” I thought heard the lass whisper.

I felt my arm being grasped, but all of my focus was on the lass. Her face flickering in the firelight. Suddenly she was closer to me, shoving whomever was attached to my arm before. 

It was her. My hand reached out to touch her then I pulled back suddenly. She spoke to me, her voice soothing and concerned as she gripped my hand. I held on tight, not wanting to let go. The feel of her skin finally real, and no longer just a dream. Quickly she had my arm bandaged and back in place, her eyes never leaving mine when she was before me. Those whiskey colored eyes filled with shock, terror and something akin to joy filling them. 

Dougal tossed my shirt and coat to me as the rest of the men filled out to the horses. 

“Jamie?” The lass asked. “Your name is Jamie?”

“Aye, mo nighean donn.” I said, memorizing her face. Reaching up, I caught a stray curl and smoothed it back behind her ear. 

“Oh, God!” she cried, falling to the floor. 

“Mo nighean donn, what is it?” I exclaimed falling to the ground beside her, gently touching her arm and back hoping to help ease whatever distress she may be experiencing. 

“You’re real? James Fraser? You’re not just a dream, you’re real.” I pulled her onto my lap and she buried her head on the side of my neck that wasn’t injured. 

“Aye, I’m real and so are ye. Ye’ve been with me a long time mo nighean donn, to finally see ye and to touch ye…” I broke off breathing in all that was her. “Mo nighean donn, my sassenach, what is yer name?”

“It’s Claire, Claire Beauchamp.” she muttered into my neck, seemingly just as loathe to let go as I. 

“I promise ye, ye’ll be safe, Claire, but we havena choice but to go out there and join the others.” I muttered rubbing her back with my free hand. 

“Why do I feel like I’ve known you my whole life?” she whispered as she stood waiting on me to join her. 

“I dinna ken, mo nighean donn.” I wished I could answer her question. My body knows her as it knows itself. 

Mounting the horse was the difficult part, but being separated from Claire would prove to be the hardest if Dougal decides she no to come wi’ us or ride with someone else. Murtagh gave me a look, and all I could do was nod. 

The moment Claire mounted the horse in front of me, a smile made it’s way onto my face. I pulled my plaid around her and had her hold it tight in front of her, shrouding her with my protection. No other man shall gaze upon her, and no one shall wonder whose she is. My angel or faerie arrived, and I wasna about to let her go.


End file.
